Father's Son
by CaosAngel
Summary: Pre-show. The Winchesters run afoul of something not so supernatural. What happens when they have to face a nightmarish reality?
1. Stealing Innocence

Disclaimer: I do no own Supernatural.

Warnings: Contains fairly ugly reality and scenes. Non-con.

Notes: wrote this a long time ago and finally decided to post here.

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Solid red neon, brightened periodically by a flash of blue, from the sign in front of the room's window provided the only source of light. Cheap blinds, thick with years of caked on dust, did very little to block out any of the saturating red. Brilliant white light would only have destroyed the quiet dark and tempting long shadows cast by the glow of the neon on the other side of the window.

Sliding the locks on the door into place, Gerald Scott pulled up the mental map he'd made of the room from previous visits. Directly adjacent to the door sat a double bed, bathroom to the left of that and window directly across from that. Under the window, slightly off center, was a heat register- the room was in need of a remodel. It'd been decades since a customer had been in that room for a good night's rest. The number had long been removed from the door and it had long been removed from their system. This room didn't exist. It was the reason Gerald kept coming back.

Leaning, momentarily, against the closed door, Gerald took in the prone form stretched down the center of the bed. He normally didn't ask for someone- be they willing or not. But this one…this one had just been too tempting. He preferred to lure them to the room with the promise of money or some kind of opportunity, but this one would never have considered his advances or usual lines. No this one was smart and traveling with his family.

He didn't ask how Grant and Mirabelle acquired him and they didn't offer up the information. In truth he didn't want to know- it really didn't matter. All that mattered was he was there, the boy was there and neither was leaving until the sun came up.

Pushing away from the door he stripped the heavy denim jacket he wore from his thick muscled frame. Allowing it to drop to the floor with a soft thump, he moved toward the bed. _So beautiful, _he thought- icy green eyes locked on the long body lying still and silent beneath a thin sheet. A shiver ran the length of Gerald's body as his large framed body sank to the mattress beside the boy.

Brown locks danced above the boy's closed eyes. Thin toned arms were stretched above his head- cuffed together at the wrist and zip tied to the headboard. The sheet was pulled teasingly up to the top of his nicely toned chest. Gerald smiled at the lean muscle tone being outlined by the thin sheet. He never would have guessed the boy would be in such good shape just a couple days ago when he first spotted him and another man walking through the motel's parking lot and he'd worn layers of clothing.

Watching the boy's face intently, Gerald ghosted his beefy hand over the sheet covered chest. The youth's eye lids creased tightly at the light brush of finger tips over the small patches of bare flesh. He was awake. He'd quit pretending to sleep soon enough.

Pulling his hand away, Gerald moved away from the bed. Hastily he stripped the heavy work boots from his feet before yanking his tee shirt over his head and dropping it to the floor atop the boots. Gerald climbed back onto the bed.

Straddling the young man's hips, he leaned a few inches from the boy's face. "You awake?" he asked- voice sounding harsh in the stale silence of the room. Keeping his eyes on the face so close to his, Gerald dipped his head further to brush dried lips along the smooth skin of his captive's face- beard stubble was just beginning to breach the skin. The boy's eye lids creased for a second and then smoothed out again at Gerald's action, confirming what he already knew: the boy was awake. "Open your eyes."

Slowly the boy opened his eyes. Hazel-brown eyes stared up at him; fear and anger filling them.

"What's your name, boy?" He pulled his face back a few inches.

"Where's my brother?" the boy countered.

_Not afraid enough,_ Gerald thought.

A dull metallic clank filled the room at the sound of the young man's dry voice. Gerald's head snapped in the direction the noise had come. Tucked somewhat neatly into the barely three feet of space between the end of the heat register and the wall under the window was the man he'd seen his prize with.

So he was the boy's brother.

Angry eyes stared back at Gerald as he slowly climbed from the bed. Metal handcuffs secured his arms together at the wrist- a zip tie held the cuffs to the un-used register. Elbows rested atop bare knees and his nostrils flared in anger and fear. A wide strip of silver duct tape covered his mouth preventing the stream of curses and threats that would surely have fallen from his lips. Mostly dried blood trailed from his nose to pool at the top of the tape.

"Dean?" the boy from the bed called out hoarsely. Dean grunted a response and glared at Gerald.

A predatory smile split Gerald's lips as he squatted down before Dean. The waves of anger and fear coming from the younger man, amused him and made him that much harder. "It's all right, Dean," he said, reaching a thick hand out to ruffle through the younger man's spiky dark blond locks. _Soft,_ he thought withdrawing his hand. Pulling away from Dean slightly Gerald noticed that he wasn't as long and lean as the one secured to the bed. He wasn't as young as he normally went for either- probably in his early twenties. But all the pleading and threatening he was doing with his large green eyes was almost enough to make him reconsider his plans for the boy being offered on the bed…almost.

"Don't worry, Dean," he said, reaching to ruffle the other man's hair again, "he and I are going to have a very good time tonight."

The younger man's green eyes narrowed to slits and his nostrils flared again at Gerald's words. Another string of what Gerald was more than sure were threats, were mumbled at him from under the tape. _If he were more my type he'd be cute like that…all trussed up, helpless and pissed._

Green eyes narrowed in anger flicked between Gerald and the boy on the bed as more inarticulate mumbles were thrown at him from behind the duct tape.

A smile once again parted Gerald's lips and he bit back a laugh at the younger man's determination to keep him from his purchase.

Dean pulled harshly at the cuffs, almost banging his elbows hard into his bare knees.

Gerald's smile broadened and he allowed a coarse chuckle to escape him at the bound man. _The one on the bed's going to have the easier time of it tonight; this one's going to break an arm trying to get free._

"Enjoy the show," he said with a wink, smile still planted firmly in place, before turning back to the bed and the young man occupying it.

"What's your name?" he asked, again, as he once again approached the bed- stripping his jeans from his body as he moved. Hazel-brown eyes stared angry torrents at the older man as he stepped from the last leg of his jeans. Leaving them and his boxers in a pile at almost the center of the room, Gerald once again mounted the bed- pulling the sheet from the young man's body as he went. "Easy was or hard way, boy," he said, lips almost pressing into the now trembling young man's neck; hand wrapping harshly around the boy's testicles.

"Sam," he gasped out attempting to arch away from the harsh grip on his jewels.

"How old are you, Sam?" He loosened his grip on Sam's testicles and pressed his lips in a hard kiss to the nape of the much younger man's neck.

Aware of the thick hand fondling his sex organs, waiting for the opportunity to give him another abusive squeeze, he whispered, "seventeen."

Gerald smiled against the youth's jaw, fingers still wrapped loosely around his captive's balls. "Good boy, Sam."

His breath was hot and moist against Sam's skin, making Sam want to pull away- he had nowhere to go.

"You're beautiful, Sam," he said, moving his hand up to play with the young man's flaccid penis. "You know that, don't you?" His lips were almost pressed, dry and hard, against Sam's.

Fear and anger burned through Sam's body as Gerald mashed their mouths together in a hard one sided kiss. The hand fondling his sex roughened and Gerald let out a grunt of frustration when Sam denied the larger man's tongue entry to his mouth.

"Don't," Sam gasped out when the older man pulled back, "please."

"It's all right, Sam," he whispered, moving to press hard kisses to the boy's cheek, jaw, and temple- lips softening as they picked up the tears rolling down the smooth skin. "I'll make this good for you. So good," he murmured dragging his hand from the still flaccid penis of his young captive to the boy's hip.

"I…I don't," Sam stammered, praying for Dean to get loose, or their dad to burst through the door, or house cleaning to come in; praying that the large man would not want the challenge and stop his assault.

"Sam," Gerald said, quiet and stern, grabbing the teen's jaw in a harsh grip, "it's you," he forced Sam's head to stare in Dean's direction, "or him." He turned Sam back to face him. "I want you to one day enjoy this. Him," he nodded in Dean's direction, "I'll take dry. It's your choice."

A single tear fell from his hazel eyes as he closed them against the stare of his captor. He could hear Dean's desperate yanks at the cuffs and zip tie holding him to the broken down register. "Okay," he breathed, keeping his eyes screwed shut.

His chin was let go. Rough lips once again pressed firm against his. Gerald ran the tip of his tongue across the teen's soft lips demanding entry. Remembering the man's threatening words, Sam reluctantly parted his lips and allowed the man to slip his tongue inside.

A shiver worked through Gerald as his tongue slid easily between the silken lips of the teen beneath him. Tilting the boy's head back a little bit, he deepened the kiss- tongue mapping every inch of the warm, wet cavern as possible.

The soft sobs escaping Sam mingled with rough grunts and metallic clanks from Dean trying to force his way free, and went straight to his cock- swelling it to almost unbearable hardness. Groaning into Sam's mouth, Gerald trapped his harden, aching length against the teen's hip. Moving his hips in slow, hard thrusts against the younger body, he thoroughly ravaged the boy's mouth.

He tasted so sweet, so young…so innocent. The urge, no need, to be buried deep within the heat of the tender, sweet body beneath him suddenly filled Gerald. Hastily he broke the kiss, will tiniest whimper of protest, and shifted over the teen's tense body to get up. Yanking his jeans from the floor, he locked eyes with the other man as slid a package of lube from a pocket.

Horror filled green eyes stared unblinking at him as Gerald tore open the small packet in his hands with a lopsided smile. Holding Dean's gaze, Gerald emptied the lube packet into his hand. He sighed as his hand slowly worked the slicking agent over his achingly hard member.

Stroking himself beyond applying the lube, Gerald turned away from his prize's older brother back to Sam. He gave the head of his erection a heavy squeeze and moaned as he crawled back onto the bed. Grabbing Sam's slender hips, he flipped the teen onto his stomach- knees forced under him, offering his ass up to the older man.

Gerald tenderly ran a beefy, calloused hand along the smooth flesh of Sam's ass. Pulling the boy back to line the tight entrance up with his now weeping cock, Gerald held tightly to the tender flesh of Sam's hips. He leaned over Sam's long, lean back to whisper in his ear, "done this before?"

"No," Sam answered with a tight whisper.

"This is going to hurt." He pealed off the young man. Firmly gripping the slender hips of the teen once again, Gerald thrust his slicked member into the unprepared hole.

Sam screamed as the thick cock of his assailant entered him. His body instinctively attempted to jerk away from the brutal treatment, but the firm grip on his hips and the zip tie securing his cuffed hands to the headboard mad that impossible.

A thick hand smashed over his mouth cutting the scream off as Gerald pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a groan. Keeping his beefy hand tight over Sam's mouth, he leaned over the lean body trembling beneath him to kiss the back of the younger man's neck. "God, boy," he panted in Sam's ear, "you're _so_ tight…so hot…you feel so very good around me."

Tears flowed freely from Sam's eyes as Gerald's voice and the sound of skin smacking against skin filled the air surrounding him and the older man. His arms were beyond aching and his hips wanted nothing more than to cramp; and he just wanted it to be over with. He wanted the man to let him go and leave him to his humiliation.

"So much tighter than I imagined," he panted into Sam's ear- speeding up his rhythm. "Can't wait to feel your mouth around me." He pulled back to sit on his knees, grabbing the teen's hips as he moved. Gerald's fingers bit sharply into the already bruised skin of Sam's hips, holding the body he mercilessly pounded into still. The whimpers, moans and breathless pleas for Gerald to stop, fueled him to pound harder and faster into Sam's abused entrance.

Feeling his release nearing, Gerald held harder to the thin hips in his bruising grip. With a loud grunt he slammed his hips home into Sam jerkily; cuming deep within the teen. He collapsed onto the softly whimpering teen, panting.

"Worth every penny," he breathed, rolling off the trembling body beneath him.

TBC


	2. Lost and Found

Pain unlike any he'd experienced over the last few hours flowed through Samuel Winchester's body as his mouth was plowed into by the much larger man. After what the man had already done to him, the teen didn't think it could get any worse. He was wrong. His knees ached from being pressed firmly into the carpet. His back throbbed in dull waves from holding him in the same position for the past fifteen minutes. His shoulders screamed in stiff pain from holding his still cuffed hands up against his assailant's thighs to keep himself steady. And his jaw ached.

When the large man had cut him loose and forced him to his knees, Sam had thought he was mentally prepared for the assault. But after Gerald's engorged member was pressed to his lips and then into his mouth, he knew how wrong he was. The pre-cum leaking from Gerald's engorged penis had been as salty as Sam had prepared himself for it to be, and far bitterer than anything he'd ever wanted to taste. The first time the erect penis grazed the back of his throat, Sam nearly choked and felt sick to his stomach.

Anger and embarrassment flowed freely through Sam's body as Gerald began to slowly rock his hips, driving into the teen's mouth—Dean's eyes glued on the grotesque scene before him. Sam wanted nothing more than to bite into the length being pressed harshly into his mouth, but the tight grip the man had on his hair and the fear of what would happen to Dean if he did stopped him.

Pre-cum coated his lips in a thin sheen as Gerald worked the teen's mouth. Spit caked at the corners of Sam's mouth, occasionally moistened anew by the unchecked tears flowing in new torrents from his closed eyes.

He gagged again as the head tapped the back of his throat. He tried to tune out Gerald's breathless moan about how beautiful he was and how hot and wet he was all over. He tried to imagine himself anywhere but in the claustrophobic motel room being violated for a second time in less than twenty-four hours.

He felt his older brother look away when their attacker began talking—between growled moans—about making him into a porn star. Metal clanked at the comment, and Sam knew Dean was trying to get free again.

Pinching his closed eyes tighter, Sam prayed that he'd get the chance to tell his sibling that the kidnapping and the rape was not his fault. Sam was sure, despite anything Dean would think about their current situation, none of it was his fault.

At long last warm streams of milky white liquid filled Sam's mouth in salty waves. Unwilling to swallow the bitter fluid, Sam allowed it to spill out of his mouth—coating Gerald's spent cock as it dribbled down the corners of the teen's mouth. He spat what was left in his mouth onto the thin carpet as Gerald pulled his softening member from his mouth and he sank down to the floor; grateful for the stress on his muscles and joints to be gone.

"You were worth every ounce of trouble," Gerald said beginning to pull on his clothes. "I just can't wait to get you home and find out what else you're good at."

Sam wanted to shoot the large man an insult or at least let him know how dead he was going to be when their father came, but exhaustion and a sore jaw held his tongue. Instead, he glared at the man.

"You sonvubitch," Dean shot at their captor. "After I kill you, I'm gonna raise you up and kill you again…and again—until there's nothing left."

"In less than a hour you won't be thinking of much more than who bought you and where you're going to end up," Gerald retorted, pulling on his shirt.

"Undo these cuffs and we'll see who's thinking about what." Dean pulled at his restraints.

"He'll be well taken care of, Dean," he said turning to face Sam. "I intend to keep you."

"Gonna sell him when he gets too old or just kill him?" Dean said—somewhere between a growl and sarcastic jackass. Sam was glad Dean'd said it and not him. Gerald would have certainly retaliated against Dean for it, had he said it.

"You're almost as much a piece of work as you accuse me of being." Gerald looked sharply at Dean. "Don't move," he told Sam, as he moved toward the door.

"Find me something to pick the lock with," Dean said as the motel room door closed with a soft click.

"There's nothing," Sam said in an almost inaudible tone from his spot on the floor by the bed. The typical motel offerings were absent from the room. There was no small, rickety table with a set of wobbly chairs—just the bed. An overhead lamp was the only, save for the window, source for light in the small room.

"Check the bathroom," Dean ordered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his hoarse voice.

Slowly the younger hunter pushed himself from the floor to his knees, and then to his feet. Unsteadily he unfolded to his full lanky height—shoulders rounded and hunched slightly; head bowed. He willed each step—left, right, left, right—as though he'd only just learned to walk. Sam could practically hear his older brother's thoughts and willed his jellied legs to move just a bit farther.

The bathroom was even more spartan than the bedroom. A small standing shower was laid out on graying white tile and a clear, molding shower curtain was pulled across the small expanse of tile to enter it. Across from the shower were the toilet and the sink—both in the same shade of yellow/grey as the shower. The mirror above the sink was just that—a mirror.

Crap, Sam thought as he gave the tiny room one more look through.

Their dad hadn't come guns blazing to their rescue. Hell, he and Dean hadn't heard from their father since he'd left almost three days before they were kidnapped.

Probably be glad we're gone, Sam thought bitterly, heading back into the main room.

'Anything?' Dean's expression said, as he looked up—hope filled—at his younger brother.

"No," Sam said barely above a whisper; keeping his gaze leveled at the floor—unwilling to watch either the disappointment or the cold, hard rage shimmer across his older brother's features. He would have reveled in the stony-cold face Dean could set on his face when he was pissed if they'd been able to get him free. But now?...he just couldn't bring himself to look up from the worn pattern on the motel room carpet.

Sam could tell by the way the air in the room stilled that Dean wanted to reassure him that he'd tried, or that it was okay—when it wasn't okay. Everything was not all right; it was fucked up beyond anything their life knew to be.

"I told you to not to move," Gerald said—voice booming in the silence of the small room.

Dean's head snapped from Sam to Gerald—anger clearly etched on his face. Sam didn't move, didn't flinch—merely stood still and silent in front of the bathroom door.

He was afraid, and for the first time in his young life there was no rush of adrenaline accompanying the fear. No security blanket of weapons, knowledge of rituals and Latin or either of his guiding forces in life to hide behind. There was just Dean chained to a pipe and rendered effectively useless. A father, who for as far as the situation was concerned, had abandoned them both. His rapist, now fully clothed, smiling and carrying a small duffle bag—blocking the only escape route. And him—naked, abused and, now, very clearly alone; an orphan of sorts.

"It's not your fault, Dean." What else could he say? 'I'm sorry you had to watch me being raped—not once but twice?' or 'I'm sorry I got us kidnapped' or 'I'm sorry dad couldn't save you…us.' Hollow, empty words—all of them.

"In this bag is a set of clothes," Gerald said—dropping the small, dark brown duffle at the teen's feet. "I'm going to undo the cuffs," he moved closer to the youth and grabbed the couple lengths of chain linking the cuffs together, "you try anything and I kill him first."

The cuffs fell away from Sam's slender wrists with a dull clank. Fighting the urge his aching and abused body had to shake, Sam rubbed at each bruised, chafed wrists before stooping down to take possession of the bag. Clutching the nylon bag in slender fingers on the verge of trembling, violently, Sam stole a quick glance at Dean—a look of anger, fear, and sorrow hardened on his face—and then back at the man who had given them the invaluable lesson in fear. He swallowed hard at a lob of spit and left over cum before taking the duffle to the bed.

Tears once again threatened to pour from his hazel eyes—he bit hard on his lip. Carefully he sat the bag on the bed—as though the slightest noise within the room would shatter any semblance of strength and calm he had managed to pull together—and pulled the zipper open. Stuffed clumsily into the bag were a thin white tee shirt, an old worn pair of sweatpants, and a thin pair of socks. Silently he pulled the pants from the bag and with aching arms he carefully tugged them up his sore legs.

He could feel both Gerald's lust filled and Dean's pleading gazes on his back as he slipped the tee shirt over his head and pulled it down his long, lean torso. Despite the clothing now covering his body, he still felt naked. The shirt was close to a size too small—it's hem just touching the top of the worn elastic band in the pants. And the thin—not so warm or cozy—sweatpants were almost a size too large for his thin-framed body. He opted to not even try the threadbare socks; afraid they would be much too small or for a woman's feet.

"What now?" Sam asked; wanting his voice to come out teeming with anger and edged with hate, instead of the hoarse, barely audible whisper it came out.

"Now, we leave," Gerald said, moving from his place in front of Dean to behind Sam in two large steps. "I'm sorry to do this to you." He planted a kiss at the back of the teen's neck as he gently grabbed hold of Sam's injured wrists. With no protest from the younger man, Gerald secured Sam's hands behind his back. "Once I get you home, we won't need those anymore." He tugged the teen in close to his chest for a brief, tight hug.

Releasing Sam quickly from the hold, he spun the young man around to face the slightly older man still chained to the register, and said, "say goodbye to your brother."

"What if I fight back?" Sam asked, weighting the option as he stood—finally clothed—before his older sibling for what could have been the last time.

"He dies," was Gerald's soft, matter of fact reply. "Any time before he's sold I can call and have him killed."

"But if he does what he's told…" Dean let the truth of the threat hang in the air. Gerald gave a curt nod and a slick smile.

"Time to go," he said tugging the teen toward the door and away from his older sibling.

"I'll come for you, Sam," Dean said before the pair disappeared from the room.

A firm grip on his arm—and a standing threat against Dean—prevented Sam from making a break for their room, or just away. He prayed as he was dragged from the room that Dean would someday be able to forgive him for being frightened for his big brother's life.

"The other one's still chained up," Gerald informed the trio greeting them at the door.

The woman of the group—dressed as a maid—gave Sam an appraising glance and he dropped his head to study the chipping cement beneath his bare feet. The concrete was almost cold on his feet, and a welcome change to the almost stifling heat of the room. Ants—just barely tiny black dots—darted across the cracks of the pavement bringing scavenged pieces of food back to their tunnels. Sam was too caught up in that scene to know or care if more had been said; or if the 'maid' was still staring at him as though his rapist had just won some sort of pedophile lottery.

A sharp tug on his arm ripped his attention from the ants marching along the cracked cement. "Remember what I said," Gerald hissed in his ear as they moved toward the parking lot.

A movement, subtle and slow, of worn tan leather just behind the motel's sign, caught Sam attention at the corner of his eye. He knew on instinct, without having to turn and view it, that his father was crouched behind the motel's sign poised for action. Action, Sam was sure, beyond a doubt, aimed at rescuing Dean—the perfect son and soldier.

Dean never once baulked at the training their father insisted they needed. Dean had begged from the age of nine to join their dad on hunts, and bounced off the walls of every cheap motel room they called home for weeks after their dad finally allowed him to go along on the easier hunts—Dean had been twelve.

Sam had been more of a challenge. He didn't want to learn to hunt—although the hand to hand was nice to know in fending off bullies—or to handle weaponry. And he had certainly not wanted to hunt. What Dean had seen as exciting and fun, Sam saw as dangerous and close to insane.

Do something! He thought, feeling the weight of his father's stare on his back.

"Let him go! You fucking sonuvabitch!" Dean's voice bellowed from within the room, and he knew which way their father was going to turn—which way his attack would turn: Dean.

"One phone call, Sam, and your brother's dead," Gerald said quietly, helping the bound teen into the passenger seat and closing the door.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"Welcome," Gerald said, pulling the car into the driveway of his house, a smile breaking his face, "to your new home."

Silently Sam took in the well manicured lawn—lush and fully green—neatly trimmed trees, shrubbery, and flowers decorating the sprawling front yard of Gerald's house. A dark brown shingle roof hung in low slopes over a white-sided house trimmed in an orangey-red color.

A groan filled the silence surrounding the pair, snapping Sam's attention from the house to the door pulling open on the attached two-car garage.

"Can't have the neighbors meeting you just yet," he said easing the car forward. A light buzz and a groan later, and the garage door touched against the cement floor. "How about we get you settled in you new room, mmm, Sammy?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sam asked with a hiss as he was pulled from the car. "Make them let Dean go. I'll stay."

"Sorry," Gerald said an almost sad timbre briefly tipping his voice. "That was never part of the deal I made to get you."

"Why me?" It was a common question—he knew that— but he still wanted, needed, to know why he had been chosen. What had he done to deserve being kidnapped—ripped from an already torn family, never to see them again? Why him? There was nothing special about Samuel Winchester…other than the way his mother had died and the way he had been raised. He needed to know what he had done so that if he ever got away from this man, out of this situation he could make sure not to do whatever it was again.

A light smile, almost apologetic, played across Gerald's pale lips in answer to the teen's question. In silence he escorted his young 'guest' down to the basement steps to a room at the bottom. A cement floor greeted Sam's feet in cold welcome as he was pulled toward a cot at the far end of the room.

"Why you?" his rapist questioned, repeating Sam's query; his voice reeking of sarcastic thoughtfulness. "While you were asleep your brother and I had this very conversation." Sam glared at his captor, as a handcuff was removed from one of his slender, and already abused wrists and slapped onto the wrought iron headboard; the other end remained attached to his other wrist. "You are beautiful, Sammy. The way you move—like a cat. Your hair so soft and silky. And the aura you give off—so tough and hard…yet soft, innocent and pure. I just couldn't let that get away."

He smoothed a hand through Sam's collar length hair, causing the teen to jerk away from the unwanted touch.

"It's such a rare thing…the mixture of beauty, innocence and jagged edges…I couldn't risk you saying no," he smiled toothily at his captive, "you tasted sweeter than I anticipated."

"How…" Sam bit back the anger and fear he felt toward the older man, forcing his vocal chords and lips to form the words, "how long are you planning…"

"Am I going to keep you here?" Sam gave a short confirming nod. "That depends on you, Sam. Make yourself comfortable."

"Wait," Sam called out as Gerald neared the room's door. Gerald stopped mid-stride—half way to the door—waiting. "I thought that you weren't going to use these once we got here." He pulled the cuff taught against the metal headboard.

"You won't run?" Sam almost wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question.

"You'll have Dean killed if I do."

"I'll take them off in a bit." He closed the door.

For a long moment Sam Winchester stared at the wood grain door hoping Dean and their dad would kick it down, pick the cuff lock and they'd be gone; but after nearly five minutes of hard staring he gave up on that scenario coming true.

May as well, he thought—not even bothering with the rest of the thought.

He bounced lightly on the mattress—not much of a squeak in the springs and hardly any lumps. He'd stayed in motels with worse mattress'—like one in Florida a couple years ago that had reeked of urine or the one the year after that had been saturated in sweat, semen and he didn't know, nor want to know, what else.

It smelled of a perfumed floral air freshener; not the musty, wet he always associated with basements. The floor was bare cement, cold under his foot resting on it. The room outside of his prison had been carpeted in a dark color too difficult to see in the poor lighting. Paneling covered one wall of the basement prison cell; large cinder blocks stacked atop each other formed the remaining walls. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that despite the fact the room was an offshoot room designed to hold 'prisoners,' it wasn't a half bad basement.

SPNSPNSPNSPSNSPNSPNSPN

His fingers were beginning to feel tingly and numb from immobility when the knob to the door jerked and the door was shoved open. For a brief moment Sam's heart leapt to his throat with the hope that Dean and their dad would be on the other side. The next moment his rapidly—yet acutely standing still—beating heart dropped, hard, from his throat to the very bottom of his stomach as his brain registered his rapist's form framed in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Sam," his captor said in the most sincere tone of voice Sam had heard him use. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought about the sudden change in the large man. "But I won't be able to keep you as long as I'd planned."

"What?! Why?" Sam pulled at the cuff securing him to the bed. Fear clawed at him again as the reality of Gerald's words sank in. He was going to die. He wasn't sure what else the man had in store for him, but that he knew without a doubt. "I thought I was worth the trouble."

"Oh, you were, Sam." He moved swiftly to the bed. "You're father…"

"My dad?" His dad had rescued Dean; he had little doubt he would.

Gerald gave a small nod of his head, "he killed three associates of mine." Sam smiled at the news of his father's deeds. "When I undo the cuff take off your clothes."

"I could fight back," he challenged, hoping to delay his death or allow Dean time for a rescue. "You don't have my brother to hold over me."

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Sammy," he said quickly descending on the teen cuffed to the bed.

Before Sam had even registered his captor's words or sudden move, his head snapped back and into the wall. Gerald's thick hand hovered a second ready to strike should Sam not be stunned enough from the first blow. Blood dripped down his newly split lip to his chin and the plain tee he wore. Carefully the teenaged hunter reached his free hand up to run his fingertips along the throbbing cut.

"You hit me," he gasped in shock; his brain finally emerging from the seconds long fog the blow had sent him into. As his mind came back to reality it registered a draft where the sweatpants had offered cover. No! his mind screamed as he realized his back now rested against the bed and not the wall. "Don't touch me," Sam hissed with as much venom as he could—hoping to sound more like Dean when he was pissed and not a scared kid who was about to be raped for the second time in twenty-four hours, and possibly murdered.

Gerald's form loomed near the bed for a long moment admiring the finely tuned body occupying it—fear and anger once again pouring from his captive in wonderful waves. It made him sad and hungry for the youth he was about to devour again.

Sam watched a smile part his captor's pale lips as he desperately pulled at the iron bars in the headboard in hopes of a weak spot, while attempting to pull himself back up to a seated position. In any other situation Sam would have read the smile as friendly; chained to a bed as he was, and half naked, Sam decided the smile was purely predatory.

The iron refused to budge. The cuff attached to his wrist began to constrict against his struggling appendage.

No! he screamed mentally as Gerald moved in one long stride to the bed.

Before Sam could even think of mustering a verbal assault of pleas or a kick, his captor pulled him flat in the bed again—covering Sam with his body. Emotions flew from Sam's grasp as his attacker began to whisper soft assurances over his lips while using legs and hands to force the teen's legs open.

"It'll be over soon," Gerald murmured pulling back to his knees. Grasping the teen's already bruised hips he carefully lined his already weeping erection up with Sam's red, puckered entrance. Good lord, how he wished he could keep the youth half writhing to get free beneath him. There was nowhere he could hide with the boy—he was sure of that. It was better that no one else got him either. Sam really was a sweet treat—one he hated to part with, but one that he didn't want anyone else to soil. Savoring the moment Gerald drove into the tender, still slightly loose entrance.

A grunt of pain forced its way passed his lips as the man entered his abused body. It wasn't as intense as the first time, though it still hurt like hell. Sam wasn't sure what the man's game was, but there was no way he was going to cry out and let the man violating his body know the pain being inflicted.

A slight tingling from his hand in the tightening cuff registered at the back of his mind as the invading body began to violently rock into him. The squeak of the bed springs almost reminded him of the last time their father had left them for a solo hunt, but the pain being inflicted on his body stole away the wonderfully embarrassing memory of the moment.

Above him, Gerald grunted as he shifted his weight and leaned in closer to Sam. Hastily the man's lips pressed hard to Sam's in a hard kiss promising nothing but goodbyes; his thrusts becoming deeper, shallower, less violent and more brutal all at once.

Clenching his eyes closed to keep both the pain and vision of his own death from himself and the man raping him, Sam could feel the tears threatening to fall and stain a path to the bed.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," the voice belonging to the body mercilessly invading his, said gruffly. Sam groaned inwardly at the contradictions being shown him while outwardly he tightened his free hand into a fist—half ready to strike.

The body above him once again shifted, taking the weighted pressure off Sam's chest with it; he barely bit back a whimper of relief at his ability to breathe a little easier.

"I'm sorry." And for the first time since the assault began the body stopped moving.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his attacker. He hadn't planned on it, but the almost sincere tone to the older man's voice made him curious enough to look. The look masking the man's face was close to the one Dean had worn a few years back when a Black Sabbath cassette he'd been particularly fond of was too worn to play anymore. Normal kids had funerals for their deceased pets, Dean Winchester had them for cassette tapes.

A chuckle at the memory began to form in his throat and Sam worked to mentally suppress it.

"I'm sorry," Gerald said, renewing his previous rhythm as his thick fingers wrapped tightly around the young man's throat. "I didn't want this for you. Not like this," he murmured to the struggling teen.

Panic filled Sam's mind at the sudden lack in ability to breathe air. He pulled at the man's hand encircling his neck with his free hand; legs kicking as he struggled to dislodge the man on top of him. The handcuff attached to his other arm, made frantic clanks as he once again tried to break it free of the headboard.

Agony, fear and pleasure collided in Sam as black and white spots blurred the colors around him. He could feel his struggles lessening, and the body hammering an invasion moving faster, as he fell into a growing precipice.

He almost felt outside of himself when his fingers loosened their hold on the hands at his throat and fell away to hang from the bed. The grunt of satisfaction and disappointment his tormentor let out as he came sounded as a distant memory to Sam's ears and his ever-blackening world.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Gerald stared down at the young man he'd finished raping and was in the process of strangling—he hated having to kill the one person he'd seen worth the money and the trouble; selling him, however, was not an option. He could never share Sam like that; it was better this way.

A tear slipped down Sam's face as his eyes began to slip closed.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Gerald apologized again, squeezing the tender neck beneath his thick fingers a little harder.

Neither body on the bed moved. Gerald barely dared breathe as he felt the pulse once throbbing in rhythm with the boy's quick heart beat, slow. His own pulse pounded heavy through his ears drowning out all other sound.

The door to his tiny, silent sanctuary splintered open with a boom that may as well have been a cannon. His head snapped from the body being rapidly drained of life to the door barely hanging by a hinge in its frame. Behind the guns aimed at him Gerald gaped at the beyond pissed expressions the men wore. A laundry list of excuses flashed his head as his mind focused on the set of green eyes filled with anger and pure lust for the kill that had become familiar to him the last twenty-four hours. He willed his hands to finish their task—if he was going to die Sam's company would be well welcomed.

Bam! The sound of the .45s aimed at Gerald broke the seconds long silence that had permeated the room. Gerald's large body lurched back as the 45 cal slugs drilled in him—one square between the eyes, splattering blood and bits of brain onto the cinder block wall the bed sat against; the other dead center of his heart, exploding the delicately tough muscle within his massive chest.

Without so much as a grunt the large man's body teetered a fraction of a second before falling back away from the listless body he'd sat atop seconds before. Neither Winchester missed how the large man's body pulled free of their youngest.

Not taking the time to smirk at his kill, Dean tucked the still smoking gun into his jacket pocket and moved with smooth precision to his baby brother's side. Normally sure hands shook almost violently as Dean reached them to Sam's newly exposed neck. Relief nearly knocked him on his ass when his brother's weak, but strong pulse thrummed beneath his fingers.

"Sam." His voice sounded rough to his own ears; enough so, he wasn't sure he had inflected Sam's name as a question, a statement, a request or in relief at finding him alive.

Their dad was a flurry of movement around them. Dean didn't have to watch or even look to know what the eldest Winchester was doing: last rights—though he didn't deserve it, John rushed through almost too fast for it to be worth it—a thick sprinkling of rock salt, and a quick dousing of gasoline. It was better than the sonuvabitch deserved, but it was far better than chancing having to come back and deal with a pissed off spirit.

A long draw of breath snapped his mind from thoughts of his brother's newly dead rapist, "Slow and even," Dean said watching Sam carefully as a harsh cough tore through the youngest Winchester's lungs—shaking his entire lanky framed body.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely there and thick with grit, but was the most beautiful sound Dean could imagine at that moment.

"Yeah," he confirmed with half a smile. "I'm gonna get you to the car."

"Dean…"

"Shh, don't try to talk." Carefully, the older boy slid the discarded sweatpants up the younger one's body. With a sigh that was a cross between a grunt of frustration and tired relief, Sam pulled his chained wrist against the headboard. "Don't worry, Little Brother, I got it."

Careful not to step on his younger sibling, Dean climbed onto the bed, digging the lock pick set he'd brought—to be on the safe side—from his jeans pocket as he climbed. "Have you out of these," he quickly inserted the needed tools into the lock and began the task of opening the lock, "in no time."

A half smile crossed and left Sam's face at the cocky humor of Dean's words. He watched as his older brother quickly worked the lock on the cuffs. Dean didn't glance at him in the minutes it took him to trick the lock into opening. He wasn't sure if that should be a comfort to him or if one of Dean's patented jackass smiles would have more to offer. A light tug at his wrist and a sharp click from the cuff attached to it, and he was free.

"Ready to go?" Dean asked, face looming over Sam's face, smile as close to carefree jackass as he could muster given the last twenty-four hours. Sam's eyes closed and he gave a small nod. "Here we go." Dean helped Sam get his feet off the bed and to the floor. A sharp tug and a groan later, and Sam was up. Dean took hold of Sam's lesser-damaged wrist and pulled the arm around his neck. Wrapping his other arm securely around his younger sibling, Dean moved them toward the stairs.

"Dean," Sam rasped once they were in the garage and heading for the Impala.

"It's all right, Sam," Dean said, instinctively responding to the question his brother wanted to ask, "he's dead.

The EndPain unlike any he'd experienced over the last few hours flowed through Samuel Winchester's body as his mouth was plowed into by the much larger man. After what the man had already done to him, the teen didn't think it could get any worse. He was wrong. His knees ached from being pressed firmly into the carpet. His back throbbed in dull waves from holding him in the same position for the past fifteen minutes. His shoulders screamed in stiff pain from holding his still cuffed hands up against his assailant's thighs to keep himself steady. And his jaw ached.

When the large man had cut him loose and forced him to his knees, Sam had thought he was mentally prepared for the assault. But after Gerald's engorged member was pressed to his lips and then into his mouth, he knew how wrong he was. The pre-cum leaking from Gerald's engorged penis had been as salty as Sam had prepared himself for it to be, and far bitterer than anything he'd ever wanted to taste. The first time the erect penis grazed the back of his throat, Sam nearly choked and felt sick to his stomach.

Anger and embarrassment flowed freely through Sam's body as Gerald began to slowly rock his hips, driving into the teen's mouth—Dean's eyes glued on the grotesque scene before him. Sam wanted nothing more than to bite into the length being pressed harshly into his mouth, but the tight grip the man had on his hair and the fear of what would happen to Dean if he did stopped him.

Pre-cum coated his lips in a thin sheen as Gerald worked the teen's mouth. Spit caked at the corners of Sam's mouth, occasionally moistened anew by the unchecked tears flowing in new torrents from his closed eyes.

He gagged again as the head tapped the back of his throat. He tried to tune out Gerald's breathless moan about how beautiful he was and how hot and wet he was all over. He tried to imagine himself anywhere but in the claustrophobic motel room being violated for a second time in less than twenty-four hours.

He felt his older brother look away when their attacker began talking—between growled moans—about making him into a porn star. Metal clanked at the comment, and Sam knew Dean was trying to get free again.

Pinching his closed eyes tighter, Sam prayed that he'd get the chance to tell his sibling that the kidnapping and the rape was not his fault. Sam was sure, despite anything Dean would think about their current situation, none of it was his fault.

At long last warm streams of milky white liquid filled Sam's mouth in salty waves. Unwilling to swallow the bitter fluid, Sam allowed it to spill out of his mouth—coating Gerald's spent cock as it dribbled down the corners of the teen's mouth. He spat what was left in his mouth onto the thin carpet as Gerald pulled his softening member from his mouth and he sank down to the floor; grateful for the stress on his muscles and joints to be gone.

"You were worth every ounce of trouble," Gerald said beginning to pull on his clothes. "I just can't wait to get you home and find out what else you're good at."

Sam wanted to shoot the large man an insult or at least let him know how dead he was going to be when their father came, but exhaustion and a sore jaw held his tongue. Instead, he glared at the man.

"You sonvubitch," Dean shot at their captor. "After I kill you, I'm gonna raise you up and kill you again…and again—until there's nothing left."

"In less than a hour you won't be thinking of much more than who bought you and where you're going to end up," Gerald retorted, pulling on his shirt.

"Undo these cuffs and we'll see who's thinking about what." Dean pulled at his restraints.

"He'll be well taken care of, Dean," he said turning to face Sam. "I intend to keep you."

"Gonna sell him when he gets too old or just kill him?" Dean said—somewhere between a growl and sarcastic jackass. Sam was glad Dean'd said it and not him. Gerald would have certainly retaliated against Dean for it, had he said it.

"You're almost as much a piece of work as you accuse me of being." Gerald looked sharply at Dean. "Don't move," he told Sam, as he moved toward the door.

"Find me something to pick the lock with," Dean said as the motel room door closed with a soft click.

"There's nothing," Sam said in an almost inaudible tone from his spot on the floor by the bed. The typical motel offerings were absent from the room. There was no small, rickety table with a set of wobbly chairs—just the bed. An overhead lamp was the only, save for the window, source for light in the small room.

"Check the bathroom," Dean ordered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his hoarse voice.

Slowly the younger hunter pushed himself from the floor to his knees, and then to his feet. Unsteadily he unfolded to his full lanky height—shoulders rounded and hunched slightly; head bowed. He willed each step—left, right, left, right—as though he'd only just learned to walk. Sam could practically hear his older brother's thoughts and willed his jellied legs to move just a bit farther.

The bathroom was even more spartan than the bedroom. A small standing shower was laid out on graying white tile and a clear, molding shower curtain was pulled across the small expanse of tile to enter it. Across from the shower were the toilet and the sink—both in the same shade of yellow/grey as the shower. The mirror above the sink was just that—a mirror.

Crap, Sam thought as he gave the tiny room one more look through.

Their dad hadn't come guns blazing to their rescue. Hell, he and Dean hadn't heard from their father since he'd left almost three days before they were kidnapped.

Probably be glad we're gone, Sam thought bitterly, heading back into the main room.

'Anything?' Dean's expression said, as he looked up—hope filled—at his younger brother.

"No," Sam said barely above a whisper; keeping his gaze leveled at the floor—unwilling to watch either the disappointment or the cold, hard rage shimmer across his older brother's features. He would have reveled in the stony-cold face Dean could set on his face when he was pissed if they'd been able to get him free. But now?...he just couldn't bring himself to look up from the worn pattern on the motel room carpet.

Sam could tell by the way the air in the room stilled that Dean wanted to reassure him that he'd tried, or that it was okay—when it wasn't okay. Everything was not all right; it was fucked up beyond anything their life knew to be.

"I told you to not to move," Gerald said—voice booming in the silence of the small room.

Dean's head snapped from Sam to Gerald—anger clearly etched on his face. Sam didn't move, didn't flinch—merely stood still and silent in front of the bathroom door.

He was afraid, and for the first time in his young life there was no rush of adrenaline accompanying the fear. No security blanket of weapons, knowledge of rituals and Latin or either of his guiding forces in life to hide behind. There was just Dean chained to a pipe and rendered effectively useless. A father, who for as far as the situation was concerned, had abandoned them both. His rapist, now fully clothed, smiling and carrying a small duffle bag—blocking the only escape route. And him—naked, abused and, now, very clearly alone; an orphan of sorts.

"It's not your fault, Dean." What else could he say? 'I'm sorry you had to watch me being raped—not once but twice?' or 'I'm sorry I got us kidnapped' or 'I'm sorry dad couldn't save you…us.' Hollow, empty words—all of them.

"In this bag is a set of clothes," Gerald said—dropping the small, dark brown duffle at the teen's feet. "I'm going to undo the cuffs," he moved closer to the youth and grabbed the couple lengths of chain linking the cuffs together, "you try anything and I kill him first."

The cuffs fell away from Sam's slender wrists with a dull clank. Fighting the urge his aching and abused body had to shake, Sam rubbed at each bruised, chafed wrists before stooping down to take possession of the bag. Clutching the nylon bag in slender fingers on the verge of trembling, violently, Sam stole a quick glance at Dean—a look of anger, fear, and sorrow hardened on his face—and then back at the man who had given them the invaluable lesson in fear. He swallowed hard at a lob of spit and left over cum before taking the duffle to the bed.

Tears once again threatened to pour from his hazel eyes—he bit hard on his lip. Carefully he sat the bag on the bed—as though the slightest noise within the room would shatter any semblance of strength and calm he had managed to pull together—and pulled the zipper open. Stuffed clumsily into the bag were a thin white tee shirt, an old worn pair of sweatpants, and a thin pair of socks. Silently he pulled the pants from the bag and with aching arms he carefully tugged them up his sore legs.

He could feel both Gerald's lust filled and Dean's pleading gazes on his back as he slipped the tee shirt over his head and pulled it down his long, lean torso. Despite the clothing now covering his body, he still felt naked. The shirt was close to a size too small—it's hem just touching the top of the worn elastic band in the pants. And the thin—not so warm or cozy—sweatpants were almost a size too large for his thin-framed body. He opted to not even try the threadbare socks; afraid they would be much too small or for a woman's feet.

"What now?" Sam asked; wanting his voice to come out teeming with anger and edged with hate, instead of the hoarse, barely audible whisper it came out.

"Now, we leave," Gerald said, moving from his place in front of Dean to behind Sam in two large steps. "I'm sorry to do this to you." He planted a kiss at the back of the teen's neck as he gently grabbed hold of Sam's injured wrists. With no protest from the younger man, Gerald secured Sam's hands behind his back. "Once I get you home, we won't need those anymore." He tugged the teen in close to his chest for a brief, tight hug.

Releasing Sam quickly from the hold, he spun the young man around to face the slightly older man still chained to the register, and said, "say goodbye to your brother."

"What if I fight back?" Sam asked, weighting the option as he stood—finally clothed—before his older sibling for what could have been the last time.

"He dies," was Gerald's soft, matter of fact reply. "Any time before he's sold I can call and have him killed."

"But if he does what he's told…" Dean let the truth of the threat hang in the air. Gerald gave a curt nod and a slick smile.

"Time to go," he said tugging the teen toward the door and away from his older sibling.

"I'll come for you, Sam," Dean said before the pair disappeared from the room.

A firm grip on his arm—and a standing threat against Dean—prevented Sam from making a break for their room, or just away. He prayed as he was dragged from the room that Dean would someday be able to forgive him for being frightened for his big brother's life.

"The other one's still chained up," Gerald informed the trio greeting them at the door.

The woman of the group—dressed as a maid—gave Sam an appraising glance and he dropped his head to study the chipping cement beneath his bare feet. The concrete was almost cold on his feet, and a welcome change to the almost stifling heat of the room. Ants—just barely tiny black dots—darted across the cracks of the pavement bringing scavenged pieces of food back to their tunnels. Sam was too caught up in that scene to know or care if more had been said; or if the 'maid' was still staring at him as though his rapist had just won some sort of pedophile lottery.

A sharp tug on his arm ripped his attention from the ants marching along the cracked cement. "Remember what I said," Gerald hissed in his ear as they moved toward the parking lot.

A movement, subtle and slow, of worn tan leather just behind the motel's sign, caught Sam attention at the corner of his eye. He knew on instinct, without having to turn and view it, that his father was crouched behind the motel's sign poised for action. Action, Sam was sure, beyond a doubt, aimed at rescuing Dean—the perfect son and soldier.

Dean never once baulked at the training their father insisted they needed. Dean had begged from the age of nine to join their dad on hunts, and bounced off the walls of every cheap motel room they called home for weeks after their dad finally allowed him to go along on the easier hunts—Dean had been twelve.

Sam had been more of a challenge. He didn't want to learn to hunt—although the hand to hand was nice to know in fending off bullies—or to handle weaponry. And he had certainly not wanted to hunt. What Dean had seen as exciting and fun, Sam saw as dangerous and close to insane.

Do something! He thought, feeling the weight of his father's stare on his back.

"Let him go! You fucking sonuvabitch!" Dean's voice bellowed from within the room, and he knew which way their father was going to turn—which way his attack would turn: Dean.

"One phone call, Sam, and your brother's dead," Gerald said quietly, helping the bound teen into the passenger seat and closing the door.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"Welcome," Gerald said, pulling the car into the driveway of his house, a smile breaking his face, "to your new home."

Silently Sam took in the well manicured lawn—lush and fully green—neatly trimmed trees, shrubbery, and flowers decorating the sprawling front yard of Gerald's house. A dark brown shingle roof hung in low slopes over a white-sided house trimmed in an orangey-red color.

A groan filled the silence surrounding the pair, snapping Sam's attention from the house to the door pulling open on the attached two-car garage.

"Can't have the neighbors meeting you just yet," he said easing the car forward. A light buzz and a groan later, and the garage door touched against the cement floor. "How about we get you settled in you new room, mmm, Sammy?"

"Why are you doing this?" Sam asked with a hiss as he was pulled from the car. "Make them let Dean go. I'll stay."

"Sorry," Gerald said an almost sad timbre briefly tipping his voice. "That was never part of the deal I made to get you."

"Why me?" It was a common question—he knew that— but he still wanted, needed, to know why he had been chosen. What had he done to deserve being kidnapped—ripped from an already torn family, never to see them again? Why him? There was nothing special about Samuel Winchester…other than the way his mother had died and the way he had been raised. He needed to know what he had done so that if he ever got away from this man, out of this situation he could make sure not to do whatever it was again.

A light smile, almost apologetic, played across Gerald's pale lips in answer to the teen's question. In silence he escorted his young 'guest' down to the basement steps to a room at the bottom. A cement floor greeted Sam's feet in cold welcome as he was pulled toward a cot at the far end of the room.

"Why you?" his rapist questioned, repeating Sam's query; his voice reeking of sarcastic thoughtfulness. "While you were asleep your brother and I had this very conversation." Sam glared at his captor, as a handcuff was removed from one of his slender, and already abused wrists and slapped onto the wrought iron headboard; the other end remained attached to his other wrist. "You are beautiful, Sammy. The way you move—like a cat. Your hair so soft and silky. And the aura you give off—so tough and hard…yet soft, innocent and pure. I just couldn't let that get away."

He smoothed a hand through Sam's collar length hair, causing the teen to jerk away from the unwanted touch.

"It's such a rare thing…the mixture of beauty, innocence and jagged edges…I couldn't risk you saying no," he smiled toothily at his captive, "you tasted sweeter than I anticipated."

"How…" Sam bit back the anger and fear he felt toward the older man, forcing his vocal chords and lips to form the words, "how long are you planning…"

"Am I going to keep you here?" Sam gave a short confirming nod. "That depends on you, Sam. Make yourself comfortable."

"Wait," Sam called out as Gerald neared the room's door. Gerald stopped mid-stride—half way to the door—waiting. "I thought that you weren't going to use these once we got here." He pulled the cuff taught against the metal headboard.

"You won't run?" Sam almost wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question.

"You'll have Dean killed if I do."

"I'll take them off in a bit." He closed the door.

For a long moment Sam Winchester stared at the wood grain door hoping Dean and their dad would kick it down, pick the cuff lock and they'd be gone; but after nearly five minutes of hard staring he gave up on that scenario coming true.

May as well, he thought—not even bothering with the rest of the thought.

He bounced lightly on the mattress—not much of a squeak in the springs and hardly any lumps. He'd stayed in motels with worse mattress'—like one in Florida a couple years ago that had reeked of urine or the one the year after that had been saturated in sweat, semen and he didn't know, nor want to know, what else.

It smelled of a perfumed floral air freshener; not the musty, wet he always associated with basements. The floor was bare cement, cold under his foot resting on it. The room outside of his prison had been carpeted in a dark color too difficult to see in the poor lighting. Paneling covered one wall of the basement prison cell; large cinder blocks stacked atop each other formed the remaining walls. He couldn't stop himself from thinking that despite the fact the room was an offshoot room designed to hold 'prisoners,' it wasn't a half bad basement.

SPNSPNSPNSPSNSPNSPNSPN

His fingers were beginning to feel tingly and numb from immobility when the knob to the door jerked and the door was shoved open. For a brief moment Sam's heart leapt to his throat with the hope that Dean and their dad would be on the other side. The next moment his rapidly—yet acutely standing still—beating heart dropped, hard, from his throat to the very bottom of his stomach as his brain registered his rapist's form framed in the doorway.

"I'm sorry, Sam," his captor said in the most sincere tone of voice Sam had heard him use. He couldn't help but wonder what had brought about the sudden change in the large man. "But I won't be able to keep you as long as I'd planned."

"What?! Why?" Sam pulled at the cuff securing him to the bed. Fear clawed at him again as the reality of Gerald's words sank in. He was going to die. He wasn't sure what else the man had in store for him, but that he knew without a doubt. "I thought I was worth the trouble."

"Oh, you were, Sam." He moved swiftly to the bed. "You're father…"

"My dad?" His dad had rescued Dean; he had little doubt he would.

Gerald gave a small nod of his head, "he killed three associates of mine." Sam smiled at the news of his father's deeds. "When I undo the cuff take off your clothes."

"I could fight back," he challenged, hoping to delay his death or allow Dean time for a rescue. "You don't have my brother to hold over me."

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Sammy," he said quickly descending on the teen cuffed to the bed.

Before Sam had even registered his captor's words or sudden move, his head snapped back and into the wall. Gerald's thick hand hovered a second ready to strike should Sam not be stunned enough from the first blow. Blood dripped down his newly split lip to his chin and the plain tee he wore. Carefully the teenaged hunter reached his free hand up to run his fingertips along the throbbing cut.

"You hit me," he gasped in shock; his brain finally emerging from the seconds long fog the blow had sent him into. As his mind came back to reality it registered a draft where the sweatpants had offered cover. No! his mind screamed as he realized his back now rested against the bed and not the wall. "Don't touch me," Sam hissed with as much venom as he could—hoping to sound more like Dean when he was pissed and not a scared kid who was about to be raped for the second time in twenty-four hours, and possibly murdered.

Gerald's form loomed near the bed for a long moment admiring the finely tuned body occupying it—fear and anger once again pouring from his captive in wonderful waves. It made him sad and hungry for the youth he was about to devour again.

Sam watched a smile part his captor's pale lips as he desperately pulled at the iron bars in the headboard in hopes of a weak spot, while attempting to pull himself back up to a seated position. In any other situation Sam would have read the smile as friendly; chained to a bed as he was, and half naked, Sam decided the smile was purely predatory.

The iron refused to budge. The cuff attached to his wrist began to constrict against his struggling appendage.

No! he screamed mentally as Gerald moved in one long stride to the bed.

Before Sam could even think of mustering a verbal assault of pleas or a kick, his captor pulled him flat in the bed again—covering Sam with his body. Emotions flew from Sam's grasp as his attacker began to whisper soft assurances over his lips while using legs and hands to force the teen's legs open.

"It'll be over soon," Gerald murmured pulling back to his knees. Grasping the teen's already bruised hips he carefully lined his already weeping erection up with Sam's red, puckered entrance. Good lord, how he wished he could keep the youth half writhing to get free beneath him. There was nowhere he could hide with the boy—he was sure of that. It was better that no one else got him either. Sam really was a sweet treat—one he hated to part with, but one that he didn't want anyone else to soil. Savoring the moment Gerald drove into the tender, still slightly loose entrance.

A grunt of pain forced its way passed his lips as the man entered his abused body. It wasn't as intense as the first time, though it still hurt like hell. Sam wasn't sure what the man's game was, but there was no way he was going to cry out and let the man violating his body know the pain being inflicted.

A slight tingling from his hand in the tightening cuff registered at the back of his mind as the invading body began to violently rock into him. The squeak of the bed springs almost reminded him of the last time their father had left them for a solo hunt, but the pain being inflicted on his body stole away the wonderfully embarrassing memory of the moment.

Above him, Gerald grunted as he shifted his weight and leaned in closer to Sam. Hastily the man's lips pressed hard to Sam's in a hard kiss promising nothing but goodbyes; his thrusts becoming deeper, shallower, less violent and more brutal all at once.

Clenching his eyes closed to keep both the pain and vision of his own death from himself and the man raping him, Sam could feel the tears threatening to fall and stain a path to the bed.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," the voice belonging to the body mercilessly invading his, said gruffly. Sam groaned inwardly at the contradictions being shown him while outwardly he tightened his free hand into a fist—half ready to strike.

The body above him once again shifted, taking the weighted pressure off Sam's chest with it; he barely bit back a whimper of relief at his ability to breathe a little easier.

"I'm sorry." And for the first time since the assault began the body stopped moving.

Sam opened his eyes and looked at his attacker. He hadn't planned on it, but the almost sincere tone to the older man's voice made him curious enough to look. The look masking the man's face was close to the one Dean had worn a few years back when a Black Sabbath cassette he'd been particularly fond of was too worn to play anymore. Normal kids had funerals for their deceased pets, Dean Winchester had them for cassette tapes.

A chuckle at the memory began to form in his throat and Sam worked to mentally suppress it.

"I'm sorry," Gerald said, renewing his previous rhythm as his thick fingers wrapped tightly around the young man's throat. "I didn't want this for you. Not like this," he murmured to the struggling teen.

Panic filled Sam's mind at the sudden lack in ability to breathe air. He pulled at the man's hand encircling his neck with his free hand; legs kicking as he struggled to dislodge the man on top of him. The handcuff attached to his other arm, made frantic clanks as he once again tried to break it free of the headboard.

Agony, fear and pleasure collided in Sam as black and white spots blurred the colors around him. He could feel his struggles lessening, and the body hammering an invasion moving faster, as he fell into a growing precipice.

He almost felt outside of himself when his fingers loosened their hold on the hands at his throat and fell away to hang from the bed. The grunt of satisfaction and disappointment his tormentor let out as he came sounded as a distant memory to Sam's ears and his ever-blackening world.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Gerald stared down at the young man he'd finished raping and was in the process of strangling—he hated having to kill the one person he'd seen worth the money and the trouble; selling him, however, was not an option. He could never share Sam like that; it was better this way.

A tear slipped down Sam's face as his eyes began to slip closed.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," Gerald apologized again, squeezing the tender neck beneath his thick fingers a little harder.

Neither body on the bed moved. Gerald barely dared breathe as he felt the pulse once throbbing in rhythm with the boy's quick heart beat, slow. His own pulse pounded heavy through his ears drowning out all other sound.

The door to his tiny, silent sanctuary splintered open with a boom that may as well have been a cannon. His head snapped from the body being rapidly drained of life to the door barely hanging by a hinge in its frame. Behind the guns aimed at him Gerald gaped at the beyond pissed expressions the men wore. A laundry list of excuses flashed his head as his mind focused on the set of green eyes filled with anger and pure lust for the kill that had become familiar to him the last twenty-four hours. He willed his hands to finish their task—if he was going to die Sam's company would be well welcomed.

Bam! The sound of the .45s aimed at Gerald broke the seconds long silence that had permeated the room. Gerald's large body lurched back as the 45 cal slugs drilled in him—one square between the eyes, splattering blood and bits of brain onto the cinder block wall the bed sat against; the other dead center of his heart, exploding the delicately tough muscle within his massive chest.

Without so much as a grunt the large man's body teetered a fraction of a second before falling back away from the listless body he'd sat atop seconds before. Neither Winchester missed how the large man's body pulled free of their youngest.

Not taking the time to smirk at his kill, Dean tucked the still smoking gun into his jacket pocket and moved with smooth precision to his baby brother's side. Normally sure hands shook almost violently as Dean reached them to Sam's newly exposed neck. Relief nearly knocked him on his ass when his brother's weak, but strong pulse thrummed beneath his fingers.

"Sam." His voice sounded rough to his own ears; enough so, he wasn't sure he had inflected Sam's name as a question, a statement, a request or in relief at finding him alive.

Their dad was a flurry of movement around them. Dean didn't have to watch or even look to know what the eldest Winchester was doing: last rights—though he didn't deserve it, John rushed through almost too fast for it to be worth it—a thick sprinkling of rock salt, and a quick dousing of gasoline. It was better than the sonuvabitch deserved, but it was far better than chancing having to come back and deal with a pissed off spirit.

A long draw of breath snapped his mind from thoughts of his brother's newly dead rapist, "Slow and even," Dean said watching Sam carefully as a harsh cough tore through the youngest Winchester's lungs—shaking his entire lanky framed body.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely there and thick with grit, but was the most beautiful sound Dean could imagine at that moment.

"Yeah," he confirmed with half a smile. "I'm gonna get you to the car."

"Dean…"

"Shh, don't try to talk." Carefully, the older boy slid the discarded sweatpants up the younger one's body. With a sigh that was a cross between a grunt of frustration and tired relief, Sam pulled his chained wrist against the headboard. "Don't worry, Little Brother, I got it."

Careful not to step on his younger sibling, Dean climbed onto the bed, digging the lock pick set he'd brought—to be on the safe side—from his jeans pocket as he climbed. "Have you out of these," he quickly inserted the needed tools into the lock and began the task of opening the lock, "in no time."

A half smile crossed and left Sam's face at the cocky humor of Dean's words. He watched as his older brother quickly worked the lock on the cuffs. Dean didn't glance at him in the minutes it took him to trick the lock into opening. He wasn't sure if that should be a comfort to him or if one of Dean's patented jackass smiles would have more to offer. A light tug at his wrist and a sharp click from the cuff attached to it, and he was free.

"Ready to go?" Dean asked, face looming over Sam's face, smile as close to carefree jackass as he could muster given the last twenty-four hours. Sam's eyes closed and he gave a small nod. "Here we go." Dean helped Sam get his feet off the bed and to the floor. A sharp tug and a groan later, and Sam was up. Dean took hold of Sam's lesser-damaged wrist and pulled the arm around his neck. Wrapping his other arm securely around his younger sibling, Dean moved them toward the stairs.

"Dean," Sam rasped once they were in the garage and heading for the Impala.

"It's all right, Sam," Dean said, instinctively responding to the question his brother wanted to ask, "he's dead.

The End


	3. Out of His Control

His breath came in hard pants through his nose as he watched the large, muscular man roll from his little brother's body. Wet tracks made their way from his broken green eyes, slipping down the tape to dampen the grey tee he wore. Dean Winchester had worn his wrists bruised and bloodied during the almost twenty minute assault trying to break the thick plastic strip holding him to the old register.

_I'm sorry, Sammy;_ he thought, watching sobs begin to wrack his baby brother's body. Pain stabbed and tore through his heart when Sam was rolled to face him and something was whispered hot into the terrified teen's ear. Dean stiffened and locked eyes with his sibling and what was left of his heart broke; the look on Sam's face was resigned and apologetic.

Sam closed his eyes and Dean once again pulled his bruised, bloody cuffed wrists against the stead fast zip tie keeping him bound in place. _Damn it_ He cursed when the thick plastic didn't budge. _Break damnit!_

_How the fuck did this happen?_ He groused mentally, taking one last look at their attacker's large form curled around Sam's lean body, he laid his head atop his hands. Silent tears slipped from his eyes, as he prayed for their father to find them. Nothing less than death awaited the sonuvabitch wrapped around Sam.

Only the sound of traffic passing on the street outside the room greeted Dean Winchester's ears, as his sobbing subsided. A light snore from their captor was the only sound in the small room. Sam had stopped crying. Dean refused to look at his baby brother naked, and tethered to a bed with their large captor wrapped around him; at least not until he was free and could throttle the sonuvabitch.

_How'd we wind up here?_ He asked himself as his mind replayed the previous day.

Their dad had left the day before, a simple haunting in a near by town. Dean'd protested being left behind. John ordered him to stay- to rest. Despite their best precautions against the poltergeist they hunted in Hawkhollow, MN, Dean'd still managed to receive on hell of a beating. A nearly dislocated shoulder and a concussion were the worst he'd gotten from being tossed about the bedroom of the oldest daughter's room. The injuries troubled the eldest Winchester more than he let either boy know. Their dad never had to tell him when something bothered him; Dean just seemed to know.

He'd gotten stir crazy and it was lunch time- and Sam was getting edgy after twelve hours and no word from John.

_Dean took a deep breath as he stepped from the stale air of the motel room he and Sam'd been sharing for the last twenty-four hours._

_Staring up and down the main drag of their current backwater home he hoped they were leaving soon as their dad returned- and for Sam's safety he hoped that was soon. He didn't want to hurt the kid, but if Sam woke him every hour on the hour again tonight…Dean refused to be held responsible for his actions._

_"__Sure you're up for the walk?" Sam asked, pulling his older sibling from his musing._

_"__I'm fine, __mom__," he retorted starting across the parking lot for the small dinner adjacent to their motel. "Thanks for asking."_

_"__Jackass," the youngest Winchester chided under his breath as he pulled the door to their room closed._

_"__If you ask me one more time if I'm all right, I swear to God I'm going to cuff you to the bed and gag you so I can have some quiet," Dean said, venomously as Sam jogged up to the edge of the street where he'd been waiting._

Bed springs squeaked and yanked Dean from the memory he'd caught himself up in. _God, how could I have said that to him?!_ Dean scolded himself as he watched the man who'd raped his baby brother- and future murder victim- disentangled himself from Sam's body. _There's no way you could have known,_ he reminded himself.

Another creak of springs and the man was off the bed. Dean watched in anger as the man moved toward where he sat tied to the register across from the bathroom.

Harsh white light broke the dark of the mostly red neon filled room momentarily before the large man closed the door with a loud click.

Sighing heavily Dean leaned his head down and started pealing away at the tape still covering his mouth. Listening to the muffled sounds coming from the bathroom, he worked the tape from his mouth. "Sam?" he whispered in a harsh hush. His brother's lean form didn't budge. _Come one, Sammy. _"Sam," he tried again to the same result.

The bathroom door creaked and Dean's portion of the small room was once again bathed in harsh white light. "He's sleeping," the man said, cutting the crisp white light coming from the bathroom off.

"You sonuvabitch," Dean spat, hoarsely at his little brother's rapist. "He's just a kid, you perverted freak."

"That, Dean," he said with a smile, stooping down to his captive's level, "is exactly why I had to have him. He's so young. An air of jadedness mixed with just enough wide eyed innocence..." he smiled, closing his eyes and running his tongue absently over his lips at the memory of the recent encounter with the teen still secured to the bed. "It's intoxicating."

"When I get loose, I'm going to kill you," he promised, green eyes locked onto the man before him.

"Are you now?" Gerald grabbed a meaty fistful of the younger man's short dark blond hair. "Come the morning your little brother'll be mine. And you?" He pulled tighter on Dean's hair, "you'll be up for sale to the highest bidder."

"Bastard," Dean hissed at the older man, "you're going to wish I'd kill you."

"Hmmmmm," Gerald purred, leaning in closer to Dean. "I could make you wish for death right now." He pressed drying lips to the younger man's face. "You wanna know why I chose Sam and not you?" the larger man said, suddenly pulling away- hands letting go of Dean's hair.

Dean swallowed hard against the question. He'd thought of that every second the man before him had assaulted his baby brother. Sam was innocent to this man's world. At seventeen his little brother had seen more horror than most people twice his age, but never once had he fallen into Dean's routine of hook ups. Sam had stayed innocent to that. Dean had picked on him for it- what big brother wouldn't- but he'd always almost admired him for that, and only under complete duress would he ever admit it.

At twenty-one there almost wasn't anything Dean hadn't done, both hunting wise and sexually. Except guys. That was just not his cup of tea. A girl in Charleston had tried to bring him back to her place, and he did go. He got as far as the front door when she let it slip that he was the third to the party. If it'd been her twin sister and not her boyfriend waiting at her apartment he wouldn't have been so quick to leave.

"Think I have an idea."

"He's rare," Gerald said with an odd smile. "He's both hardened and still so delicate. I had to have that. To taste it, feel it." He looked Dean over, eyes resting on the dark fabric of the boxer briefs contrasting the almost alabaster skin of the younger man's thigh. "It was better than I'd imagined it would or could be."

"You wanna touch me," Dean locked eyes with the once again hungry older man, "don't you?"

He could feel the vibrations of need oozing off the man holding them captive. Dean didn't want the man's beefy, slimy touch on him at all, but if it kept the sonuvabitch away from Sammy he'd get over it. Anything to keep Sam from being raped again.

"I'd make it good for you," he cooed at the large, naked man still kneeling before him.

A thick laugh tumbled from Gerald's lips as a thin smile broke his face, "I'm sure you'd try. Though I do have to say that all the pleading you did before I _took_ your little brother almost had me considering you instead."

"Let him go and I'll stay," he swallowed the lump of hope that the man would actually agree to the bargain, hope that their father or anyone would be coming to the rescue- and forced the words from his throat, "give it to you any way you want, anywhere you want, anytime you want. I'll blow your mind every time. You'll never regret it."

Gerald leaned in close to Dean, breathing the young hunter's bravado. "Is that how he managed to stay so innocent? You always sacrificing yourself for him?" He pulled away quickly. "Tell you what, Dean," he glanced at the still sleeping form on the bed, "I'll give you one chance to make me change my mind."

_You can do this, Dean._ He told himself as he allowed the muscle thick man to pull him to his knees. The cuffs bit sharply into his wrists and his arms ached after having been bent for so long at the same angle. "I'd be better if you at least let me loose of the register," he said, as his head was pulled to the hardened member of his captor.

"Make it good," Gerald said tightly.

_For Sammy, _he thought, swiping his tongue across his adhesive dried lips.

With hopes that Sam would be let free, Dean moved himself as close as he could to their captor's erect member. A trembled sigh escaped his lips as he timorously took Gerald's head into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he pushed all thoughts of Sam, their situation, the thick cock passing between his lips, and the painfully awkward angle of his arms out of his mind.

Swirling his tongue around the head of his captor's cock, Dean did his best to remember mouth jobs he'd been given in the past and what he really liked about them. Sucking lightly at the head he pulled the man the rest of the way into his mouth. Breathing as deeply as he could manage, Dean did his best to ignore and work through the gagging feeling he had from the head of the man's cock grazing the back of his throat.

_For Sammy,_ he reminded himself, backing off the rod in his mouth- scraping the shaft slightly with his teeth as he went. He smiled inwardly at the hiss the man let out. He swirled his tongue once again around the head before dipping it into the weeping slit at the tip and then swallowing him hot and hard. He repeated the act a couple more times before the man fisted his hair holding him in place.

The pace was more brutal than the one Dean had set. He scarcely had time to breathe through the gag reflex before the man pulled back and slam back in.

With a rough grunt Gerald slammed home in the younger man's mouth one last time before warm streams of cum filled Dean's mouth and dribbled down his chin to his tear soaked tee.

"Not bad," he said, pulling himself from Dean's mouth with a sick wet pop. "When he wakes up, I'll see if Sammy can top it."

"You sick bastard," Dean hissed at the man's naked back as he retreated to the bed. "You said you'd let him go."

"No," he turned to face Dean, "I said that if you were better, I'd let him go. You were good, but between you and him I have no comparison."

"You sonuvabitch!" Dean pulled already bleeding wrists against the cuffs keeping him from strangling the man.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Semen and spit clung to Dean's chin in drying clumps as he watched his and Sam's assailant lay beside his baby brother- stroking finger tips up and down the teen's bare back. Cold anger coursed through the young man at his own stupidity. The bastard had used him as a play thing; a glorified blow up doll. The way the man's thick fingers laid light trails along Sam's spine told Dean all he needed to know: he was never going to let Sam go.

_Play possum, Sammy._ Dean prayed not looking away from the man filling the bed next to his sibling. _Just stay asleep._

"Kidnap people often?" Dean asked, after too long an angry silence filled the room.

"No," Gerald said, hand still running teasing lines along Sam's back. "There aren't very many boys worth the effort or risk."

"Even if I was better than him," Dean said, not bothering to hide the anger burning through his voice, "you're never going to let him go." Gerald gave a small nod of confirmation. "When are you planning to kill him?" Dean cringed inwardly at his own words; they were hollow and cold. If he didn't get the chance to kill the sonuvabitch six ways to Sunday he prayed their father would. "You are going to die," he hissed before the man could open his mouth to answer the question Dean'd asked.

"You're never going to see him again," Gerald said, changing the pattern's he'd been tracing on Sam's back from lines to circles. "We're going to have such fun, he and I. I can't guarantee the same for you though."

"Planning on killing me?"

"No," he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on Sam's shoulder, "you go up for sale."

"You're a real piece of work, you know that."

"Let's see what little Sammy has to say about that," Gerald said, giving the youngest Winchester a hard shake; jarring Sam from the black void of unconsciousness.

"Dean, you…" he stopped as the memory of the last few hours slammed through his mind. He froze, wishing he hadn't woken up at all. Dull aching pain radiated through his shoulders and elbows, but was favorable to the pain his brain was registering below his waist. "Dean?"

"He's here," Gerald said, quietly. "In fact we have a little bet going, he and I."

"W-w-what's the bet?"

"Dean thinks that he's better at blow jobs that you." Panic, worry, fear and anger pooled in the teens hazel eyes at Gerald's words. Everything about the teen laid out on the bed beside him was better than his expectations. Sam had been a better ride than many of his willing partners- but the combined anger and embarrassment of the brothers was more than he could have hoped.

Almost humming to himself, and beaming with new hunger for the newly wakened teen anchored to the bed, Gerald climbed from the bed.

"Don't do that to him," Dean pleaded, as the large man stalked from the bed to the discarded jeans near the center of the small room, "please."

Gerald paused mid-reach for the discarded clothing to look Dean in the eye. Pain, helplessness, barely bridled rage and absolute terror filled the wide green orbs; tears flowing freely. For the second time that night Gerald found himself giving serious thought to giving in to his wonder about the other man's body. Holding Dean's gaze for a moment longer, Gerald scooped up the article of clothing at his feet. Slipping his hand into a back pocket, he pulled out a medium sized pocket knife.

With a harsh flick of his thumb, Gerald opened the knife. The serrated edge gleamed dully in the glow of the red neon. Smiling broadly he turned back to the teen affixed to the bed's headboard.

"Do whatever you want to me, just leave him alone," Dean yelled at the older man as he crawled back onto the bed. "Please, he's just a kid."

"Dean, if you don't be quiet," Gerald said, in a too calm voice, "I'm going to have to cut your beautiful tongue off. You don't want that, do you?"

Dean shook his head to the negative- allowing tears to flow down his already stained face.

"Good boy," he murmured, slipping the blade under the plastic tie and yanked up quickly. The tie broke with an audible snap.


	4. Out of the Cold

'Maybe I should have brought the boys with me,' John Winchester thought as his eldest son's phone rang into voice mail for the second time that morning. Only when the battery was dead did any of the Winchesters turn off their mobiles. Sam could have taken it away so Dean could get some rest, but Sam would have answered. Without leaving a message, John hung up and quickly hit the necessary buttons to dial his youngest son's phone.

After a second call to the youngest Winchester's phone yielding only the voice mail, John hung up and pushed the well maintained '67 Impala faster. His father's intuition was telling him there was something wrong. His hunter's instincts echoed the same thoughts.

'It was a clean town,'. he thought, driving quickly passed the welcome sign.

The motel's parking lot was nearly empty when he pulled in. Parking the car directly in front of the door to their room, John studied the outward appearance of it.

The curtains were open. 'They know better than that,' John thought, pulling the key from his pocket. Opening the door his fears and suspicions were confirmed. Both beds were made. Sam's books were stacked too neatly on the table next to his notebook—as if he were coming right back.

John had learned very early on the value of keeping the maids from setting foot in the room before they left; it was a lesson learned the first time and best if never repeated. It was one of the first rules he'd taught the boys.

Turning his back on the cleaned room, John's hazel-green eyes scanned the empty main street running in front of the motel. It was too early for traffic, over an hour before the town's equivalent of rush hour would begin.

The diner across the street was the only building with its lights on inside— the open sign was the only light in the building not on. His heart began to sink. The supernatural had taken the love of his life, and now it had returned to take his boys from the sleepy, little town of Havenwood.

He'd researched the town himself— it was safe. It should have been safe.

He always made sure their tracks were covered; no one could have followed them to the town. A demon perhaps. A demon wouldn't have bothered leaving the room clean— it would have left Sam and Dean's bodies in pieces all over the room.

Neither of them would run away. Sam may have become increasingly unhappy with their way of life, but he would never just leave. It wasn't Sam's style. Sam would make it well known he was leaving first. And Dean…Dean would have tied Sam to a chair before letting him go.

His boys did not go willingly.

Movement at the far edge of the parking lot, close to the motel's large neon sign, caught John Winchester's attention. Pushing a cart along the sidewalk lining the parking lot and leading to the room on the far side of the motel was a maid. One wheel squeaked in protest as she made her way passed the last room of the section.

Hope trickled through him that she might remember the boys and be able to point him to what or who took them. Fear that she wouldn't know anything traveled along side it.

Checking the picture in his wallet, John watched as the woman stopped near the sign, as though she were waiting for something. Damn it! He cursed at the faces staring back at him from the picture.

It was more than two years old. Sam's hair had been shorter then; not the high and tight John preferred the boys sport— he never did like the closer cuts. Dean was the taller one in the picture; though it was barely by an inch. Sam had hit a growth spurt a few weeks later and towered over his older brother by a good two inches. Sam had taken full advantage of that too.

All of a sudden, it had been Sam's turn to be bellowed at for teasing his big brother by holding wanted objects —mostly the motel's TV remote— out of reach. It had been odd the first few times the reprimand had left his lips.

Dean's hair had started getting darker than the baby fine blond he sported as a young boy. In the picture it was cut close to his head and in places resembled the fuzz on a peach.

Both boys were thinner. Dean grew into his more muscular build a little over a year after the picture had been taken.

Deciding the well out of date photo would do him no good with the maid, John tucked his wallet back into his jeans. Casually, he ran his hand up to check for the .45 tucked in the back of his jeans— as a father you could never be too careful; as a hunter you could never take enough precautions.

Armed with hope the maid might know where his boys were and the knowledge that his weapon was handy —and loaded— John made his way to the waiting woman and her cart.

"Took ya long enough," the woman said, in a voice gruffer than her looks betrayed, as John came into earshot.

'What the fuck?' he thought, not taking his hazel-green eyes from the woman as two men approached the expectant woman. Each man was a good two inches taller than John, with a good twenty pounds of muscle on him.

"Whatdaya mean, Marabelle," one of them said. John took in and memorized the slogan on the young man's tee-shirt; camouflage, stating: 'You can't see me' and a bulls eye.

'I see you, asshole,' John Winchester thought, rage building inside. Fighting the urge to pull his gun and kill the trio, John put to memory the short, spiky black hair of the other young man; as well as the black tee with a Corona bottle label printed in the faded yellow capped by lime at the corner.

"It's exactly the time Grant gave us," the guy in the Corona shirt said, finishing his 'invisible' buddy's thought.

'Creepy,' John thought. Watching the trio, he was now certain knew exactly where his sons were, as they continued down the paved walk. Allowing them a few seconds lead, John followed.

Keeping himself obscured in the bush and large neon sign, John listened to the trio as they approached their destination; and waited for the right moment to trap them.

"The other one's still chained up," a male voice, different from the other two, said.

Anger poured through John like a tidal wave as he watched the body belonging to the voice move along the path toward the parking lot— Sam in tow. His body tensed as he prepared to attack the sonuvabitch that had his son.

"Let him go! You fucking sonuvabitch!" He heard Dean's voice scream out from behind the sign, halting his planned attack. They had been kept together. 'One small blessing,' he thought— body poised for action and heart torn in two.

The man walking with Sam could and most likely would threaten to kill him in order to get away. The two men and the woman could kill Dean before he rescued Sam. It was lose, lose.

'I'm sorry, Sammy,' he thought. Making his decision, John Winchester turned away from his youngest son and the man leading him to a waiting car. 'I will come for you.'

"Sam!" Dean screamed, snapping John's attention away from Sam to the room behind the sign. "I'm going to fu…"

"Shut the fuck up," one of the men said, as Dean's angry shouts were silenced.

Reaching behind him, John gripped the .45 and moved for the room.

A large piece of silver duct tape covered Dean's mouth; silencing his curses and calls to his brother. The man wearing the Corona tee held the struggling young man's feet, while the man in the camo tee held Dean's arms.

Click. The sound of John's .45 being cocked echoed through the motel room.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off. My. Son," John's venomous voice filled the small room. Dean's struggles stopped. The men holding him froze and the 'maid' turned to face the intruder. The man in the Corona tee dropped the younger man's feet as John leveled the .45 at his head. "Un-cuff him."

"You want him back?" The one in the camo tee questioned, wrapping an arm around Dean's neck and pulling the younger man close to him. "Drop the piece."

"Darren," the other man hissed in warning.

"Let him go," John said, keeping his weapon leveled at the other man's head, "and I might let the three of you live."

"I'll break his neck," Darren threatened, forcing Dean's head into an awkward position.

"You sure about that?" John's finger pressed quickly against the trigger- leaving a perfect hole in the center of the man wearing the Corona tee's head.

"Aaron!" Darren shouted as the other man's body fell to the foot of the bed before coming to rest on the floor.

"You won't make it out of town," Marabelle growled at John.

"I wouldn't bet on that, Lady," he said, aiming the .45 at her head. "One last time, let my son go."

"You won't shoot her."

"Willing to bet?" He cocked the weapon.

Reluctantly Darren loosened his grip on Dean's neck.

"Un-do the cuffs."

Marabelle carefully reached into the front pocket of her uniform and pulled out a small set of keys. Her brown eyes carefully looked from Dean, to John, to Aaron, and back to Darren and Dean. Aware of the weight of the gun aimed at her, Marabelle tossed the keys at Dean— hitting him square in the chest.

With a small chime they fell to the floor at Dean's bare feet.

"Pick them up," John ordered Darren.

"You want him free, you pick them up," Marabelle challenged as Darren stooped to pick up the small silver keys.

"Pick. Them. UP." Darren flinched at the edge to the older man's voice as he wrapped his thin fingers around the cooling metal. "Take the cuffs off." With shaking fingers, Darren undid the cuffs.

"You sick sonuvabitch," Dean spat, tearing the duct tape from his parched lips- landing a solid left jab to Darren's jaw, knocking the man to the floor.

"Dean, clear the room and get the car." John threw the room key and the Impala keys at him. Anxious to get on the road and find Sam, Dean took the keys and left.

"Where's my son?"

"He just left," Marabelle answered, a hint of amusement to her thick voice.

"My other son."

"I don't know," she said.

"What about you?"

"Gerald Martins," Darren whispered, eyes locked onto the dead stare of his brother.

"Where'd he take him?"

"2525 Rowlings Drive."

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?" John asked the younger man at his feet.

"You'll never make it out of town alive," Marabelle said, as Darren shook his head to the negative in answer to John's question.

"Well now, that is a threat I would love to see carried out," he said, with his first smile of the day as he pulled the trigger.

The roar of the Impala's engine signaled Dean's arrival as Marabelle's body sank to the floor— landing with a dull thud.

"Please," Darren pleaded from his spot on the floor, "don't kill me. I won't tell anyone. I promise. Just please, don't kill me."

"Do you know what he did to my boys?" For a long moment Darren stared up at John from the rapidly growing pool of blood on the carpet from both his brother and aunt's bodies, before he slowly bobbed his head affirmatively. "Who brought them here?"

Swallowing hard, Darren looked up and stared down the barrel of John's .45. The large black void of the barrel seemed to stretch into infinity for the young man staring down it.

"Who brought them here?"

"Me and Aaron."

"Was he your brother?" John asked. Darren nodded. "Did you love your brother?" Darren nodded his head again. "Good."

The tear sitting in the corner of Darren's eye mingled with blood, bone and fragments of brain as it silently slid down the young man's face.

Flipping the safety on, John quickly slid the weapon into his coat pocket.

"Are they dead?" Dean asked, as his father slid into the passenger seat.

"Yes," he confirmed, noting his eldest son's attire— a pair of jeans, his boots and the same blood stained shirt from moments ago.

With a tight nod, the younger hunter put the car in reverse and peeled from the parking lot.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

"Dean," John said, softly, "pull over."

Gritting his teeth, he complied with his father's soft spoken command. Reaching into the backseat, John Winchester wrapped his fingers into the fabric of the canvas bag doubling as a first aid kit and pulled it into the front seat.

"Why are we stopping, dad?" Dean asked, watching his father's bruised fingers slide the zipper on the bag open and remove a few items. "We have to find Sam."

"We will, son," he said, softly as he carefully took hold of one of Dean's raw, bruised wrists. "But first, let's get these covered up."

Silence surrounded the father and son as John quietly set about smoothing Neosporin around Dean's wrist. Keeping the bandage as loose as he could, John wrapped gauze around the wound- sealing it with a small piece of medical tape.

"This is taking too long," Dean seethed, as his dad repeated the ministrations to his other wrist. "The sonuvabitch took Sammy."

"I know." He applied a piece of tape to the end of the gauze- already feeling the heat of Dean's anger. "I saw him."

"You know where he is?" John nodded. "Where?"

John knew then, from Dean's clipped actions and the fuming pissed tone in his voice, just how badly he'd fucked up with Dean by not taking the chance and rescuing Sam first. Someday he'd make it up to him— to both of them— he'd find a way.


End file.
